“It did. I probably wouldn’t have been able to leave at all if it weren’t for therapy, if I’m honest. She was not adjusting to her role as a mother very well at first, and it took time for her to work through it. Even now, she still struggles sometimes, but shemade a few close friends at a group therapy session her one-on-one therapist suggested, and they’ve been a big help to her.”
“I’ll look into it,” I agree, knowing he needs to hear me say it, and really, it’s not a bad idea. The thought of digging into my trauma again had been so terrifying that I’d avoided even considering it after working with a few counsellors who hadn’t known what to do with me. Maybe one more shot is what I need.
“Thank you,” he whispers, as if my agreement was all he required to breathe again. “Do you think you’re ready to talk to your friends?”
I shift, my brows knitting together as I scoot down his long body and arch my neck to get a better look at his face. “What do you mean?”
He releases a laugh, shaking his head. “You’ve been MIA for a week. I’ve been texting them updates on how Ithoughtyou were doing based on the rare glimpses I’d gotten of you, but I’m not sure I can hold them off much longer.”
Embarrassment swirls through me at how poorly I’ve handled this whole situation. “I’m sorry they’ve been bugging you,” I practically groan.
“They’re not bothering me at all. I like your friends,” he says, shrugging and rattling the precariously placed cushion walls surrounding us. “Just text them with an update and maybe proof of life so they don't show up before you’re ready.”
After a while longer, pretending the world doesn’t exist, and listening to Elijah update me on his week and the girls’ football game this weekend, we take down the fort, resetting the living room. I text the group chat and am not the least bit surprised when they demand to come over after I refuse to send the proof of life Elijah suggested.
And maybe that’s because I’m a brat. Or maybe it’s because I knew they’d come over anyway, and I sort of needed that.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-FOUR
“Okay,I know you hate being forced out of the house,butjust hear me out, okay?”
Adhira glances up at me, her head resting in my lap as she mutters to herself while playing a numbers game on her phone. She had her first session with her therapist today and has been drained, but I'm proud of her for agreeing to a second session in a couple of days.
“But you’re going to do just that, aren’t you?”
“I mean, if you’re okay with it, that is,” I correct, my neck flushing.
She rolls her eyes and sits up. “Where are we going, and what should I wear?”
A bright smile tugs at my lips. I’d really been anticipating more pushback from her, but the fact that she’s willinglyspending more time with me makes my heart squeeze with delight.
“If I told you it was a surprise, would that be pushing my luck?”
“Absolutely.” She rewards me with a lopsided, dimpled smirk, and God, does it feel good.
“Well then, we’re going to meet up with some friends and play a friendly game of football.” I brought up the idea in theThick Thigh Familygroup chat, the combination of my friends and Adhira’s. I know she’s missed playing, but that doesn’t mean the suggestion hasn't filled me with worry, leaving a small tendril of regret for bringing it up in the first place.She could get hurt.
“As long as no one plans to go easy on me, I can be ready in five,” she says, and I don’t miss the way her voice hitches higher with hidden excitement. That alone is enough to push my fears aside and resign myself to the fact that I can’t protect her from everything all the time. It also doesn’t mean I won’t still try.
“You’ve got a deal. Get dressed, and feel free to steal one of my cut-off tops this time instead of all my full-length ones,” I tease. She shows no remorse, cutting me a look over her shoulder before playfully stomping off to her room.
The wind tastes like cold grass and late autumn, and I’m trying not to look at her too much.
She’s tightening her cleats with that little focused crease in her brow, cheeks flushed from the walk here, bundled in my hoodie like she doesn’t know it kills me every time she wears my clothes, but in the best way possible. She glances up, catches me staring, and smirks like she always does when she knows she’s got me.
“You sure you’re up for this?” I ask, keeping my voice casual, like I’m not picturing every possible way she could injure herself. And it would be all my fault becauseI’mthe dumbass who suggested this idea in the first place.
She grins. “I’m not made of glass, you know.”
“No,” I say, my heart fully in my throat. “You’re far more like a diamond than glass. I’m just not sure I am.”
Her smile flickers at the edges.
She doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s there, thick in the air between us.
We don’tknowyet. If the treatment worked. If she’s in remission. If this whole chapter is finally behind her or just catching its breath before the next swing. Until we do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to take a full breath or enjoy a night free of the nightmares that haunt me.
